Jack Archer (Book 3): Year Zero Page 12

  “There’s our boy,” MacAuliffe growled, his eyes narrowing. “Time to get some answers.”

  ΅

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MUSSOLINI'S CORPSE

  LIEUTENANT RAY BIANCHI sat nervously in the driver’s seat of the Jeep, clutching the wheel with clammy hands, glancing down at the bruised knuckles of his right hand with a confusing blend of fear, guilt and pride. In the seat beside him Staff Sergeant Glen Danvers looked even more nervous, and his bruises were even more obvious.

  A black eye was blooming on his face, squeezing closed a bloodshot eye as it swelled, and dark red blood from a split lip crusted on his chin. His wrists were cuffed a little too tight behind his back, and he winced with pain whenever the Jeep hit a bump in the road. By the way he gasped his way through the potholes, Bianchi suspected he had one or two broken ribs.

  In his heart of hearts Bianchi knew he’d gone too far. He knew he could have taken Danvers into custody without violence, but as soon as he received the order to place him under arrest he’d lost control. He knew he'd let his heart rule his head, and he knew he'd jumped to conclusions. But hell, it wasn’t like it was a tricky conclusion to reach. It was obvious the colonel thought Danvers had something to do with the nuke.

  Exactly what he had to do with it Bianchi couldn't guess, but what he did know was that Danvers had been skulking around the vehicle bay far from his assigned duties when he'd 'stumbled' on the bomb, and if the sergeant wanted to claim that was just some kinda coincidence Bianchi wasn't buying. The nuke had been hidden in a crate behind a stack of other crates.

  Maybe there was some explanation that hadn't occurred to him, but if it turned out Danvers was involved in this mess he wanted to be able to say he’d gotten a couple of licks in before he snapped on the cuffs. He wanted to be able to boast about it, like the fierce old Italian grandmas who loved to tell people they'd spat on Mussolini’s corpse in the Piazzale Loreto. His own nonnina had always boasted that she hit him with a rock, and the way Bianchi saw it… well, this was the same situation. Maybe it wasn’t quite so clear cut, but if it turned out the way he suspected he’d be able to spend the rest of his life dining out on the story of how he split the lip of the guy who nuked America.

  He just hoped he was right, because otherwise he was just a jackass who'd assaulted a fellow soldier.

  In the distance the hunkered down administrative building at Beale finally came into view, and Bianchi found his foot pressing harder on the gas. He was eager to deliver Danvers. His conscience was nagging at him, and he couldn't wait for Colonel MacAuliffe to squeeze a confession out of the sergeant.

  “Is there anything you want to say?” he asked, hoping that the tenth time of asking might convince Danvers to confess to him personally.

  The sergeant remained stubbornly silent, staring out through the dusty windshield to the base ahead. He’d been silent ever since Bianchi pulled in front of the troop transport he'd been driving. Ever since he’d hauled him down from the cab, shoved him to the asphalt and beat seven shades out of him. Danvers had asked a few confused questions mid-beating, but as soon as Bianchi mentioned the nuke he’d clammed up and demanded to speak to a lawyer.

  Since then… not a single word. He looked guilty as sin, though. Bianchi could see it in his eyes. In his body language. In the way his breathing grew a little faster as the base approached.

  “Damn it, Danvers, it’s obvious you were involved. Just confess!” Unconsciously he took his hand from the wheel and bunched a fist, but the only effect was to make Danvers flinch and shrink back in his seat. Still he didn’t speak.

  “You’re gonna spend the rest of your life in a cell, you God damned traitor.”

  The Jeep shot through the open gates of the base, barely slowing for the guards to raise the barrier, and Bianchi smiled when he saw that the colonel had beaten them there. He was waiting beside a Humvee, smoking a cigar with what looked like a bunch of civilians and a chocolate lab.

  “Time's up, Danvers,” he growled, pulling the Jeep to a skidding halt in the vehicle bay. “Time to face the music.”

  MacAuliffe was already striding over as Bianchi climbed from the car, and he’d arrived by the time he’d pulled Danvers out onto his feet. MacAuliffe frowned, chewing on his cigar as he stared at the prisoner.

  “What happened to his face?” he asked, gesturing to the bruises with his cigar.

  “It got a little rough, sir,” Bianchi claimed, shoving the sergeant roughly up against the door. “I had to subdue him to get him in the car.”

  Danvers gasped with pain. He looked like he wanted to protest, but MacAuliffe spoke over him before he could get out a word. “Now, first sergeant,” he said, his expression turning cold, “you and I are gonna have a little talk.”

  Danvers shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, sir.” His voice emerged as a strained whisper.

  “No, sir?” MacAuliffe took a step closer, looming over the young man. “What do you mean, no sir?”

  Danvers stood to attention with great difficulty, his shoulders pulled back by the cuffs pinching his hands together behind him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, averting his gaze as the colonel eyeballed him from just a few inches away. “I mean no offense, sir, but if I understand the situation I’m being held on suspicion of committing a crime. If that’s the case I’d like to formally request counsel.” He visibly shrank back as MacAuliffe’s face turned a deep shade of crimson, pressing himself against the car behind him, and he continued with such little confidence that his voice was barely a whisper. “Ummm… according to the Article 31 of the Uniform Code I can’t be compelled to make any statement that might lead me to incriminate myself.” He coughed awkwardly. “Sir.”

  Bianchi scowled. The bastard was trying to worm his way out of facing the music.

  “You want to lawyer up?” MacAuliffe growled.

  “Yes, sir. All questioning must stop until counsel is present.” Danvers looked like he was just a few seconds from wetting himself. “Those are my rights, sir.”

  “Those are your rights, huh?” MacAuliffe stared at him long and hard, shifting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, a cloud of smoke stinging Danvers' eyes. Eventually he sniffed and turned away. “Lieutenant Bianchi, hand me your sidearm.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bianchi replied, eagerly pulling his Sig Sauer P320 from his holster and passing it to the colonel.

  “Now, staff sergeant,” MacAuliffe said, checking the magazine before reinserting it with a loud click. “I’m gonna make this very simple. Given the circumstances I don’t think anyone would argue that I’m out of line here.” He clicked off the safety. “I’m going to ask you a question, and if you don’t answer in five seconds I’m going to shoot you in the leg. Is that understood, Staff Sergeant Danvers?”

  “Yessir!” He spoke so quickly that the words blended together. His eyes bulged wide, staring at the gun. The last shred of courage floated away on the breeze.

  “Good,” MacAuliffe nodded. “What were you doing when you found the nuke?”

  Danvers yelled out without a pause. “Sir, I was gathering medical supplies for the field hospital, sir!”

  “Is that right?” MacAuliffe puffed on his cigar, holding the Sig casually in his free hand. “Your unit was assigned to construction detail on the other side of the camp. Why were you not with your unit, sergeant?”

  “Sir?” Danvers couldn’t take his eyes from the pistol in MacAuliffe’s hand. “I… I was under orders, sir.”

  “You were under orders to erect tents, sergeant. Your CO is on the way here to confirm that right now.”

  “Yes, sir, I was, but—”

  “So what were you doing in the vehicle bay, sergeant? Why were you a mile from your assigned duties rooting around the trucks?”

  “Sir, I was ordered there!”

  “God damn it, Danvers!” MacAuliffe raised the gun now, his voice rising. “You’re gonna tell me where they put the last nuke or I swear to God I’ll shoot yo
u in the head!”

  “Sir! I don't know anything about the nukes!” Danvers half collapsed against the side of the Jeep, his eyes wide and his voice breaking with terror. “I was ordered to go to that truck. The license number is in my pocket!”

  Danvers flinched as Bianchi reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. MacAuliffe snatched it from his hand and scanned the handwritten text. A license number followed by a list of medical supplies along with their crate numbers.

  “What is this?” he demanded, suddenly sounding less sure of himself. He shoved the paper in the sergeant's face. “Who gave you this order?”

  Danvers was sobbing now, beyond terrified. “Sir, it was General Bailey!” he cried. “General Bailey sent me there!”

  ΅

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CASUS BELLI

  GENERAL HARLAN BAILEY sat in the passenger seat of his troop truck with the relaxed, satisfied smile of a man who was seeing a lifetime of planning and years of hard work finally come to fruition. A man who’d labored long and hard, who’d risked it all, and was finally receiving the reward for his tenacity.

  For the longest time he’d feared this day would never come. He’d feared it was destined to remain forever a pipe dream, an idle wish that would never come to pass, and not without good reason. The odds against it had, after all, been astronomical. Nobody would have guessed that he could pull it off.

  What was happening today may seem simple enough to the uninitiated, the result of a few bombs being primed and buttons pushed, but in fact these were just the final few steps of a project that had been first set in motion a decade ago, and today's events were the result of a seed that had been planted long before that, born of a careful – ever so careful – discussion with a group of like-minded patriots.

  It was an audacious plan with countless players and a million moving parts, all of which had to mesh together perfectly lest the entire thing collapse. God willing nobody outside the inner circle would ever learn all the details, but if they did they could only marvel at its intricacy. They'd be horrified, of course – Bailey was under no illusions that he'd ever be lauded for his actions – but he was equally certain they'd also be grudgingly impressed.

  Despite its complexity, though, actually carrying out the plan had been the easy part. If Bailey's long, distinguished military career had taught him anything it was that a small group of well-trained, dedicated men could move mountains. The hard part had been finding the right men to move those mountains. That had proved almost impossible.

  He’d always known it would be an uphill struggle, of course, but he hadn’t quite understood just how difficult it would prove to endure the years of frustration, dead ends and extreme risk to secretly assemble a group of men with the skills, vision and patriotism to see the big picture. To see beyond the narrow, constrictive limits of their morality to a broader truth. In the end it had taken most of his career before he was ready to strike. Before his men were finally in position, placed in strategic positions throughout the world.

  But today General Bailey knew that it had all been worth it. As he squinted in the bright sunlight to the C-130 Hercules waiting for him in the airfield ahead he knew that his long journey was almost over. Soon enough he’d be able to rest, his mission complete.

  “Lower the cargo bay door, Cal.”

  Bailey turned to the driver beside him as the pilot called through his confirmation on the radio. On the dusty airstrip ahead the back of the C-130 split open to reveal its cavernous bay.

  “Home stretch, sergeant,” he said, fighting to keep the smile from his face. It didn’t feel right to smile on a day like today. “How are you feeling?”

  The sergeant nodded. “I’m feeling pretty damned proud, sir.”

  “You should, sergeant,” replied Bailey, patting the man on the shoulder. “You've done your country a great service, and don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”

  The sergeant pulled the truck behind the C-130, lining up carefully before edging forward onto the ramp. Bailey felt a rush of relief as the truck passed into the shadow of the plane, and he felt his heart beat just a little slower as the bay door began to rise. One step closer to the end.

  Most people, he knew, would think him insane. Of course they would. He’d never been in any doubt that if his plan was ever revealed to the world he’d be cast as a monster, a traitor to the land he loved. He’d be painted as a mad man, a mass murderer, despised for all eternity by the very people he was trying to help. He understood this with a clarity only available to the sane.

  But he’d made his peace with that long ago. He’d accepted that few would ever be able to understand his vision. Few would be able to see past the horror. Past the death and destruction. The years had turned them soft, idle and complacent. They wouldn’t understand why they had to suffer the regrettable but necessary birthing pains of the new America.

  If they learned the truth they’d never thank him for it, but all those who survived would benefit. They’d all enjoy the riches his sacrifice would bring them, and that was enough for him. It was enough for his men, too. They understood as well as he did the burden they must shoulder. It weighed heavy, but they were patriots to a man. They wouldn’t waver.

  The truck trembled as the cargo bay door began to close behind them, and a moment later the cold blue bay lights flickered on as the engines began to hum to life.

  Bailey felt lighter than air. He felt jubilant… ecstatic. He’d always known that the odds were stacked against him. He’d known that a thousand problems could have derailed the plan in a heartbeat, and that he’d almost certainly never reach this point. Just to be sitting there in the plane was a victory. To still be alive to witness the final strike was a triumph he’d never imagined. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to calm his nerves and still his excitement.

  There had been problems, of course. The plan had almost failed a dozen times before, not least when the Reagan Wilkes account was discovered. If the account hadn’t been frozen by that meddling DoD calculator jockey he’d have been able to secure more ships. He’d have been able to replace the freighter they lost off the Mauritania coast, and maybe even buy another for the final warhead. If he still had access to the money this could all already be over. He could have launched all nine warheads at the same moment, as planned.

  But now… now he could see that if anything the change of plans had actually helped them. If he’d been able to follow through on his original plan San Diego and Seattle would have been leveled at the same time as the other cities. An hour of earth shattering destruction would have brought the US to its knees, but it would all have been over in an afternoon. It would have gained them nothing they didn’t already have.

  Destroying the safe zone hadn’t been his idea, but now he wished he’d thought of it first. It was a master stroke. It offered them everything they wanted, and much more. It was… well, there were no two ways about it. It was pure, unadulterated evil. The emotional impact of attacking thousands of terrified fleeing refugees would aid their cause better than nuking the Statue of Liberty ten times over.

  Nuking the cities had incited fear. Millions had been terrified as they fled inland. By the time Bailey gave the order to launch almost every city was near deserted, their residents running for their lives as their homes and offices were brought to the ground behind them. It was the most audacious attack in the history of terrorism, but it had only caused fear. Bailey needed more than that.

  Bailey needed hate. He needed rage. He needed to stoke the fires of fury that would fuel America toward its next golden age, and nothing could incite hatred better than attacking refugees. Even better, it had come at almost no cost. Only a couple hundred had been killed in the attack, and the physical damage was limited to a few hundred square miles of pine forest. It was perfect.

  He’d already felt the hate brewing back at the safe zone, when he’d announced the evacuation. He could see it in the eyes of the
civilians as they’d crowded back into the trucks. When they’d arrived he’d only seen fear, but now… now it was simply disbelief. They were astounded by the audacity of the ‘terrorists’, launching an attack on innocent refugees who’d already lost their homes. As he walked toward his own truck he’d heard people pledge to get ‘them’ back. To destroy their homes as their own had been destroyed.

  Everything was falling into place. In just a few minutes the Hercules would climb into the air and set course for the final target. The final insult. The hammer blow that would erase the last of the complacency, the sloth, and the security that had seen the country he loved rest too long on its laurels.

  Soon all Americans would feel the white hot rage that would make them once again strive for greatness.

  ΅

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  STOP, DROP AND ROLL

  “TED,” KAREN ASKED, her voice slow and measured, as if speaking in more than a calm whisper might be enough to set it off, “why is there a nuclear bomb on the truck?”

  Krasinski stared down at the open crate, his expression drawn and pale. “I, ummm…” He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. “Maybe they recovered it? Maybe they found it with the other one. Maybe they’re… I don’t know, maybe they’re taking it somewhere safe.”

  Karen scoffed. “Come on, Ted, seriously? You think if the good guys had found it they’d send it off without any kind of escort? Think about it. If this was us the sky would be full of Black Hawks right now. We’d be flanked on either side by a dozen tanks. This would be the best protected vehicle on the planet. It wouldn’t be driving alone down some dusty road like a damned UPS truck.”